


Separate the People

by stardropdream (orphan_account)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-18
Updated: 2013-02-18
Packaged: 2017-11-29 18:59:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/690357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a party in the USA! (sob unfortunate Miley Cyrus reference) And England is righteously outraged at America's dancing abilities (aka: it's a clever ruse to dance with her).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Separate the People

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ December 17, 2009.

“She looks beautiful tonight, doesn’t she?” France said low in his ear and England started, unsuspecting. He glanced over his shoulder at the other man, his eyes narrowed and fingers curled delicately over his drink.   
  
“I beg your pardon?” he asked, because he wasn’t sure what else to say, and didn’t want to betray the fact that he had, indeed, been admiring America.   
  
“America,” France said, as if it was obvious. He indicated with a wave of his hand, out in the midst of guests to the American presidential ball where America was twirling, her skirts clustering elegantly around her feet as she moved, hair curling over her face, set in determination and her bright blue eyes smiling behind her glasses. “You were staring at her.”  
  
“I was doing no such thing,” England declared with a dignified scoff, punctuating his statement with a deep sip of his drink, the glass clinking against his teeth. France’s hand, no longer waving towards America, settled on the small of England’s back, much to the other nation’s annoyance. He shoved it away. France didn’t seem too shook up about this, as the banished arm settled happily across his shoulders. England pulled the glass away, scowling. “Stop saying useless words, frog.”   
  
The arm draped over his shoulders was far too friendly and England felt the color rise up his neck, in anger and embarrassment at the infringement of his personal space. He scoffed again, and tried to dig his elbow into France’s stomach. Aside from the smallest of ‘oofs’, a dissatisfying noise given England’s mission, France did not pull away.   
  
“Look at the way she twirls,” France said. England wasn’t sure if he liked the man’s tone.   
  
England rolled his eyes, because it distracted him enough not to look at her. “She’s completely ungraceful on her feet. Where did she learn to dance like that? Honestly.”   
  
“Perhaps you should correct her if it outrages you so much,” France said, watching England throw back the rest of his drink. “Or someone else will, at least.”   
  
England released a frustrated sigh, feeling the drink slosh in his mouth before sliding and burning its way down his throat. He shook his head absently, his eyes fleetingly drifting back to America as a man lead her through the dance, his hand on the small of her back. His eyes narrowed momentarily before he turned away to get himself another drink.  
  
France, frustratingly enough, would not leave him alone. He followed, despite having more than enough wine to occupy him in his glass. England glared at him.   
  
They lingered together for a long moment, watching the partygoers dancing, England drinking more and more as the evening progressed.  
  
“Well,” France said, presently, as he finished the last of his wine and set his wine glass down gently on the bartender’s counter. “I’ll leave you to your date. Perhaps if you stare at your drink long enough it’ll wink back at you, as a good date should.”  
  
England gave him a sidelong glance but didn’t say anything, and with a smile and a wave, the Frenchman sauntered off. England sighed into his drink, staring moodily down at it before realizing that France—France, of all people, damn it—might have a point. He set his glass down.   
  
Now without anything to occupy his hands with, he felt more awkward. He crossed his arms and watched the dancers.   
  
France was dancing with America.   
  
And his hand was far too low on the woman’s back for his taste.   
  
England suppressed a glare, smoothed his face out into what he hoped was a neutral expression, but with the buzz of alcohol singing his veins, he couldn’t be sure. He tried to remain cool, finding his way back to the table he’d sat in during the dinner, seating himself in a chair and watching the dancers. Or, more specifically, the way America stumbled over her feet every so often as France guided her along.   
  
His eyes traced the way even from this distance her blue eyes were bright and shining, and she was laughing, probably obnoxiously so, at whatever France was saying. Her laugh was nearly as aggravating as her smile, even from this distance. And she stumbled again.   
  
England felt as if he needed another drink. But he didn’t get up.   
  
The night was going on without a hitch. There were plenty of guests, plenty of food, plenty of music and laughter. The din carried through the hall wasn’t jarring. But England couldn’t help but feel bitter, as that was his general feeling as of late. He’d heard France remark once that it was a shame that countries never got to really take a vacation, and England was inclined to agree.   
  
The two continued their dance, America releasing her hold on France from time to time to brush the hair away from her face before he retook her hand, guiding her along and only cringing a little when her large feet stomped onto his accidentally.   
  
France was done dancing with America now, at least. But England had to wonder if the kiss on her hand was really necessary, or the way that America beamed at him was strictly because of diplomacy.   
  
England stood up with such force that his chair scraped across the floor. The party was loud enough that it wasn’t heard. Adjusting his bowtie and smoothing his hands over his jacket, he briefly wondered, to himself, why he did this to himself. Before marching away, he made a point to tuck his chair back into the table, and out of the way.   
  
He strode forward with purpose, weaving his way through the crowd towards where America stood, by the window and looking out at the night sky, where she had retreated after the dance with France. She almost looked poised, almost elegant, standing there at the window. But he’d known her for too long to think of her as anything other than silly, no matter how beautiful her dress may be—and it wasn’t all that great, he told himself, it wasn’t that flattering for her figure and the color was all wrong for her eyes. Absolutely. There was no way, in a million years, that England would dare to think that America looked beautiful standing near that window like that, one hand poised on the windowsill as if she was about to open it, her hair brushed back away from her face.   
  
She must have heard his approach, or caught the movement out of the corner of her eye, because she suddenly turned her head towards him, hair bouncing into her eyes a minute before she stubbornly brushed it away from her face. She needed to cut her hair or pin it back if she was going to fiddle continually with it like that.   
  
“England,” she greeted and almost sounded happy to see him. England stumbled a moment, taken aback by the way she was smiling, before she, in her typical fashion, continued on, “You old fogey. Finally decided to come over and say hi, huh?”   
  
England bristled, automatically on the defensive. “I am not an old fogey.”  
  
“You’ve been sitting all by yourself all evening, Mr. Grump,” she chided, jutting her hip out to lean against the windowsill, crossing her arms and laughing. England was not looking at her arms. He was staring at her, his eyebrows knit in annoyance.   
  
“If my appearance distressed you so much, perhaps you shouldn’t be looking,” England snapped, face flushed from the alcohol and anger.   
  
She laughed again, and brushed aside her hair. Damn her. “You give yourself too much credit. Luckily for you, most people would overlook you.”  
  
England’s eyebrow twitched once before he looked away, releasing the hiss of a sigh. He questioned his sanity, and not for the first or last time, and wondered why he’d come over to her, much less to this party.   
  
“We can’t all be shining stars like you, America.”  
  
She must have missed the sarcasm because she beamed, positively glowing. “I am pretty great!”   
  
“And dense,” England muttered and wished he’d gotten himself another drink.   
  
“What was that?”   
  
“I said that you aren’t as great as you may think.”  
  
She looked confused a minute, before laughing. “Uh huh, sure.”   
  
“Your arrogance will be your undoing,” England told her easily, trying his hardest not to rise to her bait, no matter how oblivious, and not get angry. Not here.   
  
“Oh?”  
  
“Don’t think it isn’t clear to everyone in this room how completely uncoordinated you are when it comes to dancing.”   
  
“Dancing isn’t really my thing,” she admitted and it must have been the lighting that made her cheeks look pink. She rubbed her hands together, distracted. “I mean, the fancy kind of dancing at least. I’m better at other stuff.”  
  
“I’m so sure,” England said, and quickly added, lest America failed to hear his sarcasm, “You kept dropping steps and stumbling and stepping on toes. Would it kill you to just let others lead you?”   
  
She grinned her inane grin that he’d long since learned to despise and, yet, was unable to pull away from. “Well…”  
  
“Never mind,” England muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose.   
  
“I didn’t realize you were watching me, England.”  
  
“I was not,” he declared with a huff. “You’re just hard to miss when you’re making a fool of yourself.”   
  
“Are you here to school me in the proper ways to dance, England?” America asked, blinking at him and then brushing aside her hair again. He wanted to clamp her hands to her sides.   
  
“Maybe I am,” he scoffed.  
  
She stood up straighter now, smiling at him. “Well,” she said, hands on her hips now. “Bring it on, old man.”   
  
He narrowed his eyes at her, frowning, before averting his eyes from her and holding out his hand to her. She grinned and took his, her hand fitting snuggly into his. He bit back a sputter at her laugh and just tugged her, harshly he so hoped, towards the dance floor.   
  
“This is just to show you how foolish you are,” he reminded her.  
  
“Yep,” she agreed, stepping close to him once he stopped, hand resting on his shoulder, and other hand still holding his, letting him cup hers gently.   
  
He put his hand on her back, high up—as a point to France, should the man be lurking about and watching him. America, naturally, noticed this.   
  
“Your hand’s a bit high up there, isn’t it England?”   
  
“It is not.” England hoped she would drop it, and began moving the steps. She stumbled, nearly tripped over the fabric of her dress.   
  
“It’s practically on my neck!” she laughed, seeming unconcerned about the aforementioned tripping. England scowled.   
  
“It’s so I can throttle you for daring to question my dancing when your steps are an utter disgrace.”   
  
She snorted.   
  
“I am being proper,” he jeered, but the hand on her shoulder blades did slide down a bit as he began moving, leading her along. She was smiling. He hated that smile, because he could not look away from her whenever she made it. He cleared his throat, forcing himself to avert his eyes. “Even at a place like this there are people who have their hands wandering a bit too much. Are all you Americans simply too hormonal?”   
  
He wasn’t even going to mention France and his wandering hands. He pressed his hand more firmly into her back, feeling the curve of her spine, the smooth tilt of her skin. She stumbled again, and laughed. This time, he could note the smallest hint of nervousness in her laughter, and the way she subtly glanced around to see if anyone had seen her fall.   
  
But when she looked at him again, she was smiling—complete and utter confidence.   
  
“I am not so lewd as to feel up a dancing partner while dancing,” England said primly. “Placing a hand too low is simply uncalled for and isn’t romantic in the least, it’s simply vulgar.”  
  
“Man, you really can be a stick in the mud,” America interrupted, teasing. “Are you trying to be romantic, England?”  
  
England sputtered and nearly lost his own footing in his surprise. “ _No._ ”   
  
She laughed, louder this time.   
  
“I’m simply showing you—”  
  
“—How much of a disgrace I am,” she interrupted again. “I know.”  
  
“Would you stop interrupting—”  
  
“I know, I know,” America said, patting her hand on his shoulder. “I’ve seen my own romantic comedies, you know. I know how this dancing thing is supposed to work.”   
  
“Hmph,” England scoffed. “Don’t take those movies as gospel. Perfect pieces of ridiculousness if ever there were some.”   
  
“Hmmm,” she hummed, her hand smoothing over his shoulder thoughtfully before she went back to beaming at him. “They’re better than your movies.”   
  
“They most certainly are _not_ ,” he growled low and almost missed a step, though he regained his footing in time to pivot his foot and dip her instead. She blinked up at him in surprise, her grip on his shoulder tightening and her eyelashes fluttering a moment in surprise. He forced himself, very pointedly, not to stare.   
  
He righted her and continued on, but she kept stumbling. He slowed down but that seemed only to make it worse, as she shuffled along beside him.   
  
She stepped on his foot.   
  
“Alright then,” he muttered. He looked at her, watching the way her blue eyes reflected the lighting. “You lead. Perhaps you’ll do better setting your own pace.”   
  
“Sure that’s proper, England? Aren’t the girls meant to follow?”  
  
“And since when do you follow anyone?” he shot back, and couldn’t help the way the sides of his lips quirked, threatening amusement.   
  
She must have spotted it, however, because her smile almost softened and then she tilted her head. The hair spilled from behind her ear and threatened to blind her, but she didn’t pull away from his hand as she had before with the others, and instead led them along. She still stumbled, but not as much.  
  
The song ended but they didn’t pull apart, England insisting that she lead for a full song, to see if she really was as much of a failure as she appeared. His words lacked venom now, but she seemed determined to prove him wrong. She led him, and even dipped him once—much to his chagrin, especially upon seeing her toothy grin—and seemed actually to get the hang of it.   
  
Progressively, her smile softened more and more until it was only the smallest lilt of lips on her face. Her eyelashes fluttered thoughtfully and he realized that the hand on her spine had somehow slipped down to rest just above the small of her back, his pinky feeling the slightest dip and curve of her back.   
  
“Meeting your approval?” she asked, and he snapped back to attention.  
  
He snorted. “I suppose you aren’t as hopeless as previously suspected.”   
  
She seemed to glow, taking his biting words as praise—and they most certainly were not.   
  
He was about to remind her that it was not praise until another song started up and they were off again, her leading him and him allowing this, letting her set the pace. Her hair was in her face and she kept trying to send it away with a puff of air from her lips, sending it upwards so it fluttered.   
  
“Honestly,” he said, moving his hand, still holding hers, and stretching out his fingers to tuck her hair back, brushing across her forehead to push the fringe away, “you should just tie it back if it gives you this much trouble. Or cut it.”  
  
“I could never tie it back, it likes to be free. Feels better that way, too,” she chided. “Though I’m thinking of cutting it.”   
  
“Hmm.”   
  
His hand returned to its proper position.   
  
“Thanks.”   
  
“For what? Making you realize your own foolishness?”   
  
“Ha,” she snorted a laugh. “You just proved how awesome I am at leading, is all. I should do this more often.”   
  
“I’m sure many a man’s feet would be happy for this.”   
  
Her hand curled into a light fist before bumping his shoulder, frowning and yet unable to hide the smile in her eyes. “Hey now. I wasn’t bad before, either.”   
  
“Of course not, America,” he said, and once again she failed to hear the sarcasm.   
  
He danced with her for the rest of the evening.


End file.
